Swipedown
by enderoth
Summary: An app to end all apps


**Swipedown.**

**Day Zero Point One**

"You need te take a ticket, mayt," the man in front of him said with a rounded east London accent. His girth blocked out most of the view ahead.

"Sorry! What?" John answered unsure of himself.

"Ticket mayt. Gotta have a ticket or you'll get nuffink." The man in front was chewing what might have been gum but the savagery of his mouth action made it hard to tell. The tattoo on the back of the man's neck said 'Tear along dotted line…' but the overlapping rings of neck fat made it look like '_toodle_'.

"Ticket for what?" John asked.

"The thing, the big off, ya know, the match to end all matches." The man pointed ahead. John noticed the man's fingers were bent and distorted but the man did not seem to be bothered by it.

As if out of nowhere, a ticket machine was beside him. The man ahead had turned away, irritatingly flicking his own ticket between his fingers. Number CC-CL-10291. CC-CL-10291, it seemed like an unusually high number for a queue. John pulled it out and the next one appeared. CP–NL-6012. The number was lower, that meant getting in faster. John looked around, no-one was looking. He reached out to take the number but it resisted. John pulled harder, it was just paper but it would not pull free. There was no one behind him, he was last and that did not bode well. John turned back, the man ahead was arching upwards to look down the line.

The light flickered for a moment. Someone appeared behind John as though out of nowhere, his head covered in a loose hood, a baseball cap poking through saying Rvmpvge. The ticket that was there was gone now and another one had appeared. John pulled again at the ticket just as the light above flickered and then looked up for a brief moment. Before he could try a third time to take another ticket a small hand pulled the ticket away. The queue budged forward one step.

John had noticed the tune before he noticed anything else. Girl from Ipanema on loop, low enough to barely hear but loud enough to think in bars of eight. But after an hour this would be his madness. John looked around, they were in a corridor, the light above was making a low humming noise, the man in front was flicking his ticket almost in synch to the flicker and click. The boy behind was not saying anything, his hood pulled over his head, the hint of earphones draped beneath his sombre face. The faintest of a tune whispering in the dim light. One step forward, another flicker.

The man in front turned again and learned against the wall, he was wearing a Chelsea football jersey with a large brown beer like stain down the front and the name Daryl emblazoned on the back. In front of him was a woman holding on to a younger child, stuggling to keep the child by her side as the girl pulled away in boredom or anger. The child looking back at John, holding what looked like a phone in her hand but bigger than a normal phone. She was tapping on it, her small fingers pressing hard on the screen as it buzzed in response. Other people were in front of her but they were faint in the dim light and mostly silent.

Flick! Whisper. Tap, tap, tap and finally a buzz from the phone. Then a click as the light dimmed again and the queue moved up one step.

"Where am I?" John asked the man in front, not remembering how he got here. He remembered being at the office, it was almost lunchtime, someone was taking a food order and he was hoping for his meatball marinara.

"It's the queue init!" the man answered, his twisted fingers attempting to demonstrate the futility of the question.

"Queue?" John asked again hoping for a more concise and descriptive answer.

The man pushed himself up off the wall and a smile broke through to smooth down his three chins, he had found his form, his love. With his gnarled hand tugging at the motto on his shirt. "The big game, the roll on. Blues and P'cocks init. Halfen down the march and two points in it. Barkley and Sacko, ain't nuffink but a breaf for the pensioners. Blues will be down three nil before half and then go home like, tail between their legs."

John struggled to understand most of what was said but what he did could not be right. Football. Football! Why would HE be in a queue for football? He hated football as much as he hated gherkins on his marinara. And why would they be queuing in a corridor, did people at a football match queue in a corridor.

"You for the fucken irons then. Got the wrong fucken match for that. You'se 12 points out, no fucken way of making that up. Draw will still put you'se at the bottom, and then oaught, down to the first with the little men."

"I don't understand?" was all John could think of answering to that, not because it was the right answer but because he was not sure of the question, or what language the answer was given.

"The Hammers. Purple and all that, like my auld doll's glad rag. Facken bunch of nonces. Carol's got nuffink on Jorgy. Six spots on a trail of fifteen matches, and two of them's a spot kick. Me kid could do facken better."

John feigned interest, smiling as best he could, it was all he could think of doing against the tirade of arm waving, saliva spitting and shirt pulling. The range of tattoos would have made it interesting, or distracting, but they had mostly faded into each other. The kid up ahead was still staring in between button pressing.

Flick! Whisper. Tap, tap, tap, buzz. The light flickered again and everyone stepped one more step forward.

"Not the same since Kennedy ran, lost the spirit in the midfield, getting harder to cross down the right side. He could really get the ball to where it was supposed to get to. Then boom, boom, boom, walk away with a three one, Odoi, Pulisic, Odoi. facken Oreo triple."

What did he remember, he was at his computer, reports to do, could have them done before the end of the day but Jane from purchasing was going on about scans and showing her children's photographs around. He could remember thinking that the conversation would never end, I mean, how many photos of a four years olds artwork could she have to show. And then what. Then he was in the corridor taking a ticket for a football match. And there was no indication of the sandwich.

"Facken Man city takes it from nowhere, nowhere. Not a decent wan among them, Silva maybe. All facken Spanish. May as well buy the cup. Playing the 434, that's just confidence, that's not football."

And then what. John touched his side, his bag was there over his shoulder, was it time to leave, was he getting the lunch order? Could not remember leaving either way. The man ahead was still talking, the teenager behind was still listening to the rattle of music, Ipanema was still there in the background like a football chant. The child was still pressing buttons on the phone like each button was the last one. It was only 2 o'clock, there was still two hours to go. Then why was he here.

The light flickered again, the ticket machine was further down the line now and the sound of a baby crying, repeating again every ten seconds like an approaching ambulance siren. The teenager behind looked up for a second and sneered.

"One, one! And nothing was happening, down the left and forward and back and no-one pushing it. Jorgy and Cheek playing tap-tap and there's me and Denny, shouting away, time ticking down. And nuthin happening, nuthin fucken happening."

Flick! Whisper. Tap, tap, tap, buzz, wail, Ipanema. One step forward.

**Sunday – Kensington 5.30**

Helen looked at her phone screen one more time, her thumb paused above the icon for another try. What was the harm? That one did not work out, sometimes it's just the way, plenty more fish in the sea, three dates and that was more than enough chance. She felt bad, two dinners and a conversational misunderstanding. Maybe he was genuinely concerned, maybe all those texts was because he cared. But done is done. Needs to be held down, swiped left and the button pressed. Gone, a review in three key presses and with it, a life judged for others to read. And with it too the memory of the evening. Perhaps one day they would bump into each other again, meet in the streets, she pregnant with her ninth child and he with a stomach, a wig and a trolley pram. And they would look back on this moment as something they once did.

One little push, five seconds and a final push and he would be gone. But what if she was actually at fault. What if she had not decided on the first date that being an IT technician in an office block was an up and coming profession and that App designing on the side was a good thing. 'I mean' she thought to herself at the time, 'we all need apps, and the world is holding its breath for that one app to end them all.'

Nope, time to move on, not the end of the world. Her thumb hovered a moment longer as the last vestiges of doubt and moral panic faded and pressed the home button. Better to feel that she was dating than not. Until she was dating. That is why they invented the Mute icon.

Tink.

"The measurement in billionths of a second between the firing of the brain cells and the automatic hand movement towards the buttons on a phone in a measure of the society we li..." Something, something, something. Helen remembered reading this on a tweet. It was probably one of those things that was important to someone, studied, researched, grant enabled, but it was a long sentence and had too many letters to engage in.

DT nt gd tn. MTH. Lol. CU 10. Tl All.

TTFN.

"Alexia, what should I wear tonight", Helen said aloud to herself. She had prepared her own answer already. There was a sense of achievement and reassurance when Alexia agreed with her.

"Red shoes, the blue dress you like. No necklace. White underwear," came the synthesized answer. There was a sense of disappointment. Alexia knew about the date, the argument, and the conclusion to it all. She knew because she knew everything, she had listened to every rant, every stupid question and learned from it. She knew more than Helen did, she knew the blue dress was the fresh start dress, she knew the red shoes were her please-fuck-me-shoes, she knew the white underwear was her regretting underwear. She knew too much.

'1000 calories to go today,' the watch said. '1100 hundred steps', 400 to go to meet the quota.

Loose dress it was then, Alexia would never know, she would be too judgmental in her silence. Helen wrote a note to herself, remember not to take a photograph or Alexia would find out. On time and she was compulsive obsessive, early and she was too keen, late and she was controlling and manipulative. There was no winning, just drawing.

_Tink._

'Sushi Now, Ken High. 7. CU there.' The message sat on the screen like a command. Another date, set up and decided by her slightly improved upon traits. The app knew it was a little white lie, almost a checkbox ticked to say close enough.

Seven O'clock, sticking to a schedule, the rules of dating again, too early and she was easy, too late and she was a tease. But did it matter, the app had already judged her suitability, measured her criteria and desperation levels against those of similar. The image on the screen showed a man in a half suit with sun glasses carrying a small uncomfortable looking dog. Was it too soon, it had been less than 24 hours since the last one and the argument, the stupid argument.

"Siri, Uber for 6.30 to Kensington High Street," she shouted at her phone.

"Uber confirmed" the phone answered matter of factly. Siri did not judge, not openly but you knew she was thinking about it.

"Siri, set excuse alarm for 9.30," Helen answered as she moved aside the blue dress in the wardrobe.

"Alarm set," Siri responded. There almost felt like a pity in the tone, like Siri knew she would need the alarm. Two and a half hours was enough conversation and food, more than enough, longer and there might be expectations, on both sides, that awkward 'should we, do we have to' feeling.

The blue dress, maybe Alexia was right, Helen found herself taking it off the hanger as if by instinct. Well she was not going to wear the red shoes. That was definite, an absolute. One hundred and ten percent Helen. She would not be dictated to by a voice in a black box. Not this woman, no-one knew her like she did. Nah-ha.

**Zero Point Eight**

Flick! Whisper. Tap, tap, tap, buzz, wail, Ipanema. One step forward.

Someone was pushing up through the line, faintly apologising as they pressed past each person but not stopping to hear the complaints.

"I have a flight to catch, it's important," the person was saying. They were pulling a trolley bag and sweating with the effort. The wheels of the trolley clattered against shins and shoes, bouncing from wall to leg with each person passed. The man was dressed well, a laptop bag overfilled over his shoulder as it swung and pulled him forward.

"Excuse me, my flight is in ten minutes and I need to get through." John recognised the American accent, a drawl of the eastern coast. The people in the queue were not putting up a fight but the surprise was slowing down their acceptance to move.

The man pushed passed John and the supporter without making eye contact, and was soon gone out of sight and sound.

"Jeez, must be a top box supporter," the Chelsea fan said but stopped smiling when John did not react.

Again. John tried to think but the sounds that were silent an hour ago just seemed to be rattling in his head now. A pattern, almost predictable. He was at his computer, there was Jane, two hours to go after lunch and it was only Tuesday. He was doing three keystrokes when he should have been doing ten. Another photograph of the baby in a high chair was being thrust before him, looking like any other baby in a high chair.

"Yes lovely" he said. The man in front stopped somewhere midsentence, staring, interrupted.

"Two down and Miazga off for a little push. Facken robbed we was. Refs a pool man, scousers sticking up for each other. See this, Blues to the end, man and boy." The man showed the tattoo under the sleeve of the jersey of a badly drawn white faced youth that had faded to a monochrome smear. The man smiled, proud of the artwork. It was supposed be someone to be recognised.

John realized he had not been listening. How long had it been now, two hours, three, the queue was barely moving, the baby had not stopped crying, and he was still not sure why he was at a football match. Two O' Clock, but how did he get here, and what time was it now. He thought about getting his phone out and checking, but that would seem rude.

John found it odd that people were not complaining about the queue, people were not shoving or trying to press on. It was just accepted. This did not come easily for John who was pedantic about his level of impatience.

Tap, tap, tap, buzz, wail, Ipanema. One step forward.

John looked around the man ahead and down the line noticing that there did not seem to be an end in sight, ten people, fifteen and the light faded. They had moved about fifty steps so far and people just seemed content to wait. And he was not hungry. He was not anything. Odd. He did not even feel like a cigarette but it was hours, the craving should have been there.

John reached into the satchel over his shoulder and without breaking the fans concentration felt around for the cigarettes for reassurance. His phone was there, some blank paper he had slipped into his bag from work, pens, a charging cable and then nothing. His hand looped around again, pens, paper, a lighter tucked in the corner but no cigarettes. Fuck. Fuckedy fuck. John took the phone out and flicked the button, the phone immediately beeped back, clearing its throat for the message announcement.

'You have 4% remaining,' it said, proud of its calculating skills. 'Recharge now.' Thirty seconds of searching for a signal, the percentage number flickered and settled to 3%.

App response, an envelope with one beside it. John clicked it, the phone looped a few times before popping the message up.

'We were both wrong but hey. Good luck. Helen.' An animated sad face and hand wave. Sad face and waving hand, was that how the relationship was defined. John had thought about marriage, babies, growing old together, holidays and shared wages. Yes, it did not go well, yes she did not agree that Brexit was inevitable, but that was conversation, not argument, that was ckever people discussion to show his knowledge and interest in a modern society, the big story, the millennials mantra. Was it the argument, was it the name he called her. Was calling her a remoaner a slur?

A sad face, what happened to Dear John letters, what happened to the long goodbye? Was he expecting too much from her on the third date, the rules of engagement he read online said it was important to define the relationship parameters on the third date, set targets, show some of the traits hidden on the first two but easing into it, the push and pull. So he pushed.

Two percent, he flicked the phone again back off stand by and popped up the keyboard. But what to say. Could he be funny, say something amusing about Brexit and diffuse the situation, should be apologise and take the higher ground. Should he just send a sad face and let it ride for a day or a flower to say sorry, a digitally animated Interflora. The screen faded as he decided. Flower it was, women liked flowers, the website said so, millennials appreciated the gesture, save the environment, send it digitally, a digital flower last forever.

One percent, back off stand by, keyboard back up, scroll down for the image set, find the plants, find the flower, choose red or white. Red or white. What would white say, sorry I apologise even though I was right, not begging like red. Yes then. White it was, could not go wrong with white. She would appreciate the gesture, not romantic but practical. Tap.

"Look on that thing and see how long's left mayt. Go on, match should be starting soon." Tap, tap.

The circle appeared, white text, 'Powering off'. Fuckedy fuck.

"Powered dan, just like the Lilywhites at half time." John looked up at the man's grin. This was his humour, the best he had, John recognised him trying.

"Just like the Lilywhites," John repeated, not knowing what exactly that meant.

Step forward, the queue moved as one. The man was still going on, each time it seemed like new materials but the same song.

**Sunday – Shepherd's Bush – 7.20 **

Helen swiped her finger right along the star line to four. Not the full rating, he was on time, the car was clean and he took the right route but he was a talker. Every now and again it was a talker, where are you going, what for, what job, how long for, where did you go on holiday, why they like London so much. Talk, meaningless and time consuming. They would never meet again, they would never share the same ride, and her life was neither enhanced nor burdened by the conversation.

So, four. The app asked why. Did she have time to fill in a survey or give a worded review? Would she like to complain or leave a comment? Would she recommend the App to a friend? The driver was looking at Helen as she pressed the buttons on her phone. There was no tip, no comment that was said, no thank you that was not digital. If only he could swipe her out of the cab and onto the next one as quickly but there was always that delay, that digital connection between customer and driver, the hope that it would be different, that love would blossom in that moment, that this would be their story to tell the kids when they were old. But that faded as she walked away, her face lit up by the screen.

Helen was fashionably almost on time, so was PeterT369, half standing, half sitting on a high chair by the bar, not sure how many buttons he should keep open on his shirt to give the right impression. At least he did not have the dog with him as evidence that it was not hired for the photoshoot. As Helen approached him, uncomfortably swaying in her red shoes, their phones pinged in unison. The app had successfully joined them and it felt proud of the start.

PeterT369 smiled as she approached, his eyes following afterwards away from his phone. He slipped it into his jacket pocket as he did so, the profile picture still on the screen. Helen smiled back, her finger dismissing the message on her own phone with a swipe, her thumb sliding to the stand by buttons. The phone gave a slow sigh and shake as it powered down like a quick congratulation speech.

"Nice dress, blue is my favourite colour" he said. Helen fought for an appropriate first words answer but could think of little other than "Thanks, mine too." The first words on a date were more important than the first kiss, that what she read. 'They would be the words you tell your grandchildren,' the Blog article said, 'It would define the first conversation, the alpha and the beta, set the tone and the initial judgement that would have to be broken in the first five minutes.'

Blue would be on her mind now, rattling around as a personal debate, what if she had worn the red dress, can't say red is a favourite colour, that would have been too creepy. How would he have introduced that into conversation, would he have turned onto her shoes instead? Her high heeled red shoes, no place like home shoes.

Conversation was brief, how was work, what do you do, been here often, did you come far. Not the kind of things that would be remembered for years to come. This was not the best of starts. What did his profile say, worked in the city but not at what exactly, corporate international business dealer or house nanny, liked animals but not vegetarian. Working on a PhD. That was something, but at thirty, that was a bit late to still be a student. Conversation on this lasted for more than three minutes, plus the two at the bar, and four about where to live in London, just 98 more to go. You knew the date was not going well when you could count the minutes left.

Themed Sushi. You ordered on the pad at the table, customised, itemised, swiped the flavour and spices up to five, weighed it, counted it, caloried controlled it, and ordered it. It was impersonal but convenient. After ordering it flashed up 'You ordered Calamari, you might also like…' Small meals arrived on small plates, they added to the small lists of conversations that should be asked, on a date like this, she ran through the order in her head, work, TV, sports, holidays, travel, family, ambitions, cuddly toy, food mixer… All around conversations were being interrupted by ting's, people showing images on their phones to others, selfies and tweets flying to keep the minds active.

9.10, the final food, the app showing it from all angles to be sure, dessert on a screen, customised flavours and sizes, and on a plate in minutes.

9.20 – the screen lit up, the logo swirling around like it was happy, then a message. 'How would you rate your meal today?' PeterT365's screen lit up a minute later, he was tapping within moments as the last of the Daifuku disappeared.

9.25 – The conversation was drying up like the last of the wine, she had gone through the list and nothing had stuck and was struggling to think of anything other than complementing the food or comparing it to others. And deliberately avoiding election talk, politics and Brexit, the romance killers, the verbal contraception.

_Ting._

Helen reached for her phone but he had his out in a shot. Three presses and a swipe later and he was apologising for having to leave. Work emergency, something needed printing before morning or there would be consequences, was she OK to get an Uber on her own. With a stab of his card into the table dock, he was leaving. An awkward apology, a more awkward peck on the cheek and a promise to call later to make sure she got home all right.

"This was great, you were great, I would like to do this again." Before her smile had managed to fully form he was leaving.

_Ting._

The device on the table lit up again. 'Thank you for your custom, how would you like to pay.' All over in two minutes but Helen was not unhappy, just irritated. She pressed the phone icon and bumped her phone against the menu tablet. A message appeared, 'Payment complete, thank you for your custom. Please come again. You have earned 50 Yo Sushi points today.'

_Ting._

A message on her phone, Helen has qualified for a 20% discount on her Sushi Now next visit. Valid until the next bad date. What happened?

9.30 – The phone flashed in her hand angrily, Mother calling, urgent. Other people in the restaurant were looking, disappointed it was not their phone, disappointed that they did not have a reason to look at their screens. For a brief moment Helen had forgotten the time, the exact time. Bad date warning and with a swipe it was gone.

It took her a moment to realise the truth. Had she been Bad Date warninged as well. Was there really a need to print something for work that was so urgent? Did people still print things these days.

'Fuckedy fuck,' was her only conclusion.

**One point Zero**

"You have 4% remaining," it said again. "Recharge now."

John was beginning to suspect something was odd about this. Not so much this, but the fact that the child in front always seemed to be playing on her phone and the youth behind was always listening to his music. Yet they never seemed to run out of battery. At first he thought it was just an infinite replay of the day but conversations changed, the Chelsea fan adapted to circumstances, the realisation that he was not going to see the match was starting to take hold.

Four percent. He would have to work with it, he had little choice, even if charged, it would reset to four percent. All he had to do was figure the routine, when did it reset, how long before he could try again and what could he do with four percent to keep himself occupied. He considered asking for a charger or a power bank but people were very uncooperative. There was that constant feeling that they were close to the end of the queue and lending anything would be a waste of time.

"How to fix this," it was a title at least but he could think of a better one during the other ninety six percent. John looked through the apps, guessing which ones were not appropriate right now. Dating apps, probably not, Facebook, what would he call his status if he had a chance. WhatsApp. Who to message right now, and say what, guess where I am, guess who I met the other day, Death. Uber, he wished. PizzaHut, at least it would be a free pizza for taking longer than an hour to arrive.

Design an App to reduce the sizes of queue from a waiting to a return when called state. People here would only have to go to the front of the queue when their name was called. It was genius, and stupid at the same time. People loved queuing, queuing gave people something to look forward to, it was a line of self-consideration and composure, a time to reflect and improve, jogging for the lazy.

"Recharge now." The percentage number flickered and settled to 3%.

"Queue App, Q-App, Queue Crush, CallMyName, NumbersUp. That was it. Sounded like a good name. And the name was important, the name was everything, something to roll off the tongue in a conversation.

2 percent. John kicked the App builder and wrote down the title. But where to save it, if the phone reset it would go away. He could not redo the code every time he turned the device on, there had to be another way. John kicked in the background, the title, a list of options with no purpose and clicked on save, the hourglass spun and reported an error in connecting.

1 percent. Front screen box for queue code. It was all about the front screen, people liked or hated an app for its interface. Save, the hourglass spun again and reported an error. Tap, tap, delay, the child looked up in frustration. What next, did he know enough about programming to do this or would this just pass the time.

The white line at the top of the phone moved from zero to one bar for a brief moment and then faded back to grey. John pulled down the toolbar, clicked the nine squares and pressed the WiFi icon. One connection, one hotspot untethered, one chance to save his file.

Tap, tap, tap, and then a longer delay than normal. Beep!

The phone powered down and faded to black.

The baby had stopped crying, that at least was a help but the child ahead was still tapping, three, four then a buzz and every now and again the bleary eyed child would look up. The man was going on about Lampard being manager, running through justifications and alternative scenarios. The line had moved another hundred or so paces. How long had it been now, it felt like a whole day but how could it be, he was not hungry, he was not colder or warmer than when he arrived, he was not anything. He looked at the fan, again, stares at the man's fingers for a moment and looked away again. Why wasn't he tired? No-one was tired, in fact no-one was complaining at all.

"What happened to your fingers?" John dared ask in a gap in the glorious parade that was Chelsea Football Club history.

The man held them up as though surprised, held them silhouetted again the dim light like the pillars of Buddha but each fallen is a different direction.

"Fuck knows," the man answered, looking at them.

"I was getting a drink from the machine. Facken thing jammed on me, floating there like a Keene ball. So I took it. He shoots, he scores." The man raised his other hand and pulled a gnarled finger and popped it back into place. There was not even the twitch of pain in the man's face. Then the second and third. Pop. The noise was like finger nails down a blackboard.

"Facken nuffink mayt. Seen worse at a Millwall game. Seen Gregory's boot rip through Walcott's leg. Facken dirty players." It wasn't so much the inane conversation, it was the tap, when it felt like John was fading the man tapped him on the shoulder with the back of his wrist like a typewriter being pushed back for another line.

The line moved on, and on. Another hour, another, still the dim light, still the queue, still the same feeling of give it another hour and see. John was getting more suspicious but thoughts were not holding in his head, it felt like after every three hours it was resetting, forgetting the hours before, four percent to play with.

John reached into his bag again in case anything was different this time, paper, pens, spare pens, notes from accounts that needed amending. John pulled a page out and fumbled for a pen of choice. The man was talking again, tap, more Chelsea, tap. A spreadsheet of figures with pen lines pointing at different sections. Why would he take it to a football match? On the back was a tea stain, one of many vices. But what did he want it for now. John had forgotten, was it just something to distract him from listening? Slap, another line about Chelsea, another step forward.


End file.
